


mac to cheese ratio

by blueparacosm



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Bullying, Fluff, Gay, M/M, bad language, humor?, idk it's chill, lame!, some homophobia, some sexual language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-27 16:16:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8408299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueparacosm/pseuds/blueparacosm
Summary: Murphy, participatory outcast, owns the unspoken deed to an entire cafeteria lunch table, if for nothing else a lack of companionship. When an odd and unreasonably beautiful stranger lays claim to one Murphy’s seats, he’s forced to make a friend, (or something more.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> this is super lame and stupid but i wanted to post it because i liked some of it
> 
> definitely the worst thing ive ever posted on here but like. eh.

 

It starts on a Thursday in September. It’s meatloaf and potatoes day.

He’s picking at the edge of his styrofoam tray- flicking the white chips into a half-empty milk carton and watching them float around on the surface with an intense fascination- when the table jerks slightly, creaking under an unexpected weight.

The boy startles, training his eyes on the tainted dairy product in his clutch as the newest addition to his usually barren lunch table shifts around, their jacket emitting an unbearable rustling noise and making an unusually hypersensitive Murphy’s toes curl. He dares not say a word of it, though.

But, really, who does this fucker think they are? It’s Murphy’s table, and everyone knows it.

But curiosity killed the cat, someone in history must have apparently said, although Murphy thinks that’s bullshit. It wouldn’t hurt to just... steal a little peek... and- _oh!_

 _“Oh,”_ he breathes, more of a forced exhale than a word, and the recipient looks up from their excuse of a meal, a limp slab of meatloaf dangling from a plastic fork. Tanned skin, raven curls crawling out from under a backwards hat, and a very distracting peppering of freckles. He’s known as the excommunicated football team captain, B-something. Dropped for reasons unbeknownst to Murphy, beknownst to everyone else in the school, apparently, considering he’s so down on his options that he’ll sit with John Murphy.

Murphy clamps his mouth closed, and the boy across from him blinks indifferently, guiding another forkful of Underfunded Public School Nutrition to his mouth.

He considers saying something, perhaps a sharp, _“Do I know you?”_ or a biting _“Need something?”_ Although, when he parts his lips to speak, the guy never looks up from his tray, and Murphy glances at all of the cold, empty seats around them, and finds, oddly, that he’s kind of tolerant of the arrangement.

And, in all fairness, it’s not really his table, (no matter the number of _M’_ s carved into the speckled laminate.)

He pinches the corners of his carton with a thumb and a forefinger on each side and pulls, widening the square so he can see better inside. He continues his busy work of tearing the plate to pieces, and dumping the remains into his drink with a solemn look gracing his features.

“Bellamy?”

Murphy looks up. His new table-mate is watching as Murphy’s fingers continue to meticulously pull apart the styrofoam. His saucer-wide blue eyes flicker to the end of the table. A boy in a slightly-tattered jersey, crimson red and grass-stained white, number eight.

_“Seriously?”_

His table-mate stabs into a browned potato wedge, pulls back the end of his fork with his index finger, and releases. The wedge hits the other guy’s chest with a small and almost comical _“boumph”_ , and falls soundlessly to the litter-blanketed cafeteria floor. And then he turns back to Murphy, dark eyes glued to the milk carton once more.

“Oh, real _mature_ , Bellamy. Have a nice lunch, asshole.”

The boy exits, fists clenched and a small greasy stain on his left pectoral.

 _“Bellamy”_ stares at Murphy’s potato wedges. Murphy nudges his tray forward, an offering. Bellamy takes one, pops it into his mouth.

Murphy fights a smile, the first in a while. The other boy’s lips twitch. They meet eyes. Ocean blue on smooth brown. Murphy’s stomach flutters, swirling excitedly. He looks away.

Hell, he can share his table for the afternoon. Charity, right?

  
***

Friday comes around. It’s quesadilla day.

Murphy finds himself staring absently at the empty seat across the table. He’s not sure what he expected, but he’s disappointed anyway.

He’d liked the company, regardless of whether or not his pride would allow an admission of the fact.

The not-so-self-satisfied lone wolf completes his meal quietly, doesn’t really taste it. Doesn’t really see the fluorescent lights flickering. Doesn’t really hear the ceaseless chatter.

He pauses, thinks he sees a head of curls. Smooths back his own hair, straightens the black leather on his shoulders. Unthinking.

He was mistaken. A few girls from a neighboring table look to him with raised brows, laughter stifled. He pales slightly.

Murphy opens the milk carton. It’s chocolate today. Within five blindly passing minutes, it’s styrofoam.

Life can be a tedious thing for the lonesome.

***

Monday. Chicken pot pie.

He doesn’t like chicken pot pie. Too many vegetables, no way to pick around them thoroughly enough. No bueno.

He stares at the crossword on his milk carton with knitted brows. What the fuck?

“Cow’s in it twice.”

Murphy blinks. “What?”

“The word _“cow”_ is in it twice,” Bellamy repeats, dropping into the opposite seat. His hat is yellow today. Murphy’s face heats up, his stomach twists.

Where were you? comes to mind. Murphy kills the thought. Just, brutally, with knives and fire.

He only sees one cow.

He lifts a thick brow at Bellamy’s folded hands. _Where’s your food?_   floats between them.

The other boy shrugs. Maybe he doesn’t like chicken pot pie either.

That’s just too fucking bad, isn’t it? Murphy thinks, as a thick square of it flies across the room, hits the taller boy in the neck. Vegetables and questionable cubes of chicken slither down his throat and take residence in the fabric of his shirt.

He jumps to his feet, moving faster than Murphy’s ever seen him. Number Eight meets his stance from a few tables down, and the other jocks cheer him on. Some clueless bystanders begin whooping and launching wadded-up napkins and plastic silverware at each other, wanting to participate but simultaneously keep their own clothing intact.

“Got a problem, Blake? I was just repaying my debts.”

Bellamy’s face reddens slightly, and Murphy can’t stop his eyes from trailing down to his clenched fists, knuckles turning white and the creeping veins in his arms protruding as he strains to keep it together.

“I’m charging interest.”

The table of rambunctious football players rumbles in excitement, the entirety of the cafeteria also roaring in excitement, all in unison. Murphy, in the unavoidable nature of a teen, feels that ever-present urge to join in, to yell and scream when he has the excuse, but he stifles it. He isn’t sure why.

Number Eight grins, looking a little thrown-off, but he turns to scoop up another handful of pie anyhow, just as his opponent had ordered. And at that very moment, Bellamy extends his hand to Murphy, and he finds himself placing his precious source of calcium in the center of Bellamy's flattened palm without hesitation, movement guided and forced as if he had no choice in the matter.

He watches with a kind of disbelief combined with awe as the carton makes it’s journey across the table and lands flawlessly in the center of the boy’s chest, light brown cow excretion splattering expertly across the entirety of his front.

The guy pales, and Bellamy’s hands noticeably loosen in satisfaction.

With an unavoidable feeling of horror, Murphy is oddly attracted to him in that moment, covered in pot pie, cherry red and all.

***

It’s Tuesday. Hot dogs that Murphy will not reckon with. Too mysterious. Too penis-shaped to eat in front of other human beings.

Bellamy doesn’t seem to think so, he figures, trying to tear his eyes away. He isn’t sure if he’s entertained or strangely titillated. That is... fucking _weird,_ Murphy.

“What are you looking at?” Bellamy says, almost inaudible.

Murphy scolds himself. It’s a damn frankfurter.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

Bellamy swallows, throat rolling and bobbing with the movement. Murphy squirms in discomfort. “I said, what are you looking at? And don’t tell me what to do.”

Murphy sneers, snapped out of the teenage boy haze by Bellamy’s words. “Don’t tell me not to tell you what to do.”

Bellamy’s mouth flattens into a straight line, before his shoulders jump and his cheeks puff out, laughter bubbling up inside of him. Murphy can’t resist the smile it draws out of him, and after a moment, the pair is left with a light, joy-perfumed air about them.

His hat is black today.

“I like your hat.”

“I like your shirt.”

It’s the gray one with _“global chilling”_ stitched onto the pocket in a dark green. Murphy likes it too.

I like _you_ , Murphy thinks. He shakes his head. Don't be stupid. Stupid and gay is a bad combination.

Bellamy finishes his hot dog, eating quicker than before. When he’s done, he puts Murphy’s empty carton on his tray and heads for the garbage cans, before swiftly leaving the room and taking off to wherever he goes.

He’s never picked up Murphy’s trash for him before. He blushes, staring after him through the glass like any cliché fool in like-like.

Oh God, he’s in _like-like._

  
***

  
It’s Wednesday. It’s mac ‘n cheese day.

Murphy shovels spoonfuls into his mouth. He loves Wednesdays.

Bellamy does too. His plate is clean. He flicks through his phone, silent. He smiles every so often. Murphy blinks at him, mouth full and stomach happy, but still feeling a little curious, if not jealous. Who’s he smiling at?

He finishes his plate too quickly. He overestimated how much mac was in double-mac. It felt like a half mac. He hums lowly in dissatisfaction.

Bellamy glances up, dropping his phone onto the table with a muted clatter. The disappointed look on Murphy’s face draws words from his usually zipped lips. “Go get some more.”

“I’m on free lunch.”

“What, parents out of the job?”

Murphy pauses thoughtfully. “Something like that.” Dead, but close enough. He stops his lip from quivering with firm discipline.

Bellamy rises suddenly, causing Murphy to jump. He weaves through the cafeteria’s crowded seating arrangement towards the finally-empty lines, drawing a few strange looks. Murphy wonders halfheartedly what he’s up to, but is distracted by a startling vibration of his ass. Bellamy’s phone buzzes twice, shaking the entire table, somehow.

 _“No, no, no, that is invasive and wrong and pathetic, put that **DOWN,** ”_ his brain cries, desperate. Murphy’s hands are on the phone, though, it’s too late now.

 

 **Miller**  
what’s he like

 **You**  
an ass

  
**Miller**  
kill him

 

  
**You**  
and cute

 **Miller**  
suck his dick

 **You**  
jesus miller, hes right in front of me  
_Delivered_

  
**Miller**  
convenient. quit texting me and just do something  
about it. im in class

 

Murphy’s face is beet red. He pushes the phone across the table with a shaking hand and a flipping stomach to match.

He has no time to process the messages, as the man whose privacy he just completely invaded returns, a plate of double mac ‘n cheese in tow. He places it before Murphy and then sits, staring him down.

“What?” Murphy says, stumbling over his tongue.

“Eat it?” Bellamy answers, like a question.

“But- but this is a lot of cheese and not a lot of mac.”

“It was at the bottom, stop complaining. I did a nice thing for you.”

Murphy sighs, weighing the likelihood that he’ll projectile vomit from excitement directly onto his crush, before he rakes up a hearty spoonful and places it between his lips. Bellamy watches.

“What are you looking at?”

“Nothing,” he answers, gaze never faltering.

“You are literally staring at me,” the shorter boy argues, an unwashed strand of hair falling into his eyes as he bobs his head while speaking, jumpy with nerves.

Bellamy reaches forward with only slight hesitation, tucking the hair away smoothly, fingers brushing the curve of Murphy’s ear and sending chills down his spine.

The likelihood of vomit has just increased tenfold.

“That was gay as fuck, Blake,” calls a voice that isn’t Murphy’s, and they both jump.

Bellamy sighs, and drops his hand, the moment gone. Murphy’s eyes are glassy and pearlish, glued to Bellamy’s hand so intently he can hardly focus on his surroundings.

“Go ‘head, sweetheart. You and your little _twink_ here can-”

_WOOMPH!_

Bellamy’s standing over a crumpled Number Fourteen, who’s on the ground, hands cupped over a blood-splattered nose and upper-lip. His knuckles are bruised already. Murphy jumps to his feet, nearly crowing in excitement as a face-stretching smile flits across his lips.

The assistant principal is guiding Bellamy away by the forearm like it’s an arrest. The resisting brunet looks back at Murphy, face bright with adrenaline and pride.

“Lunch this Saturday?!”

  
***

It’s Saturday. It’s “Whatever you want,” day.

He thinks about the question. What does he want? He watches Bellamy tie on a hopefully-ironically colorful and extravagant “KISS THE CHEF” apron.

It almost seems like a suggestion.

Bellamy sees him eyeing the apron, hears him not answering the question. He lunges forward and closes the distance between them, pushing forward excitedly until Murphy feels the edge of the kitchen counter pressing against his lower back sharply. “Ouch,” he mumbles onto Bellamy’s lips, and Bellamy breathes lightly, the warm air ghosting over his mouth like a faint memory. “Sorry,” the tanned boy huffs, backing up anxiously. “I’ve just- wanted to do that for a while- I- if you’re not- I’m sorry if-”

Murphy shrugs. So much for lunch, anyways. They've had enough of those. “Do it again.”

Bellamy lights up like a Christmas tree, rushing forward and wrapping two broad arms around the smaller boy’s waist, who responds just as eagerly, tangling a trembling hand in a tuft of dark curls. Bellamy pauses, suddenly, looking decidedly past him at a tipped-over box of Easy Mac.

“What’s your name?”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> they had mac n cheese afterwards if anyone's wondering. also yes they exchanged numbers at one point and everything and bellamy picked murphy up for their date and all that and he just. never knew his name
> 
> anyways this is unedited and was written in like twenty minutes and im awful so dont flatter me
> 
> eh


End file.
